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I’m so nervous. The viewing is today, and I can’t decide what I want Michael’s ghost to see me wearing. I decided that the best thing for me to wear would be a a onezie with Michael’s face air-brushed onto the front. I get downstairs and get into my rental car. To get into the viewing “zone” I’ve done nothing but listen to Michael Jackson records with my eyes closed, so at first, the California sun is almost intolerable. At one point, I’m about five inches from striking a pedestrian with my Taurus. I kept my eyes closed for so long because I want to save all my eye powers for when I lay my vision upon thou palest and most beautiful of pop sensations.

“Driver, take me to Neverland Ranch.” I say to myself.

“OK, Iron Kyle. Right away.” I reply to myself.

My driver (me) and I (me) embark on our great Michael Jackson dead-venture.

I arrive at the hallowed ground– Neverland Ranch. I get out of my car and am shocked to look out upon a vast emptiness. Where is everybody? Looks like MJ has only one true fan–me. I walk up to the gate and shake my head at all those not in attendance. I press the buzzer and say into the speaker:

“Iron Kyle for the viewing.” I’m met with silence from the other end. I’m assuming I’m talking directly to Michael’s body. “Can I come in? That cool?”

Static.

“OK, Mike, I’m on my way in. I’ll take my usual route.” I then take my shirt off, throw it over the spikes at the top of the gate and climb over.

There’s nobody home. When I get to the front door, I’m greeted by a kindly butler/messenger/vagrant living on the porch.

“Hello there, kind sir. Where are all the mourners?”

“GIMME DOLLAR!” He yells. He reaches out his grimy hands that are covered in really smelly chocolate.

“Your hands are covered in smelly chocolate. You can’t have my dollars. You’ll make them sticky. Now, where are all the masses eagerly awaiting their opportunity to say goodbye to the songbird of the last three generations?”

The old man spit on the ground and showed me his middle finger.

“All right. Thank you very much.” I say and walk away from the butler/wine-o. I call a friend who informs me that the service has been moved to the Staples Center, where just a few weeks ago thousands of fans were greeted to the viewing of Dwight Howard (SPORTS!).

I get to the parking lot. I’m charged $15 to turn off my vehicle on a huge plot of concrete. Stupid. To make up for this inequity, I litter the shit out of the Staples Center with a 72 oz. commemorative “Come Prove to Yourself that He’s Dead. Michael Jackson: Viewing 2009” cup.

The crowds were massive. I have to stand in line for a long time. This is boring. At one point, I lean forwards to the guy in front of me and ask jokingly, “Who died again? Is this the Farrah Fawcett thing?” The response I garnered was a sneer and the guy stealing my program out of my hands. I turn to the person behind me and jest, “I’m only here because the Billy Mays viewing was all booked up.” Unfriendly glare. People don’t think I’m funny here. That’s fine. I don’t think they’re funny either.

All night and most of today I’ve been thinking of great and profound things to say when I get to Michael’s body. I figured out the perfect elegy. Check this out:

Your time was cut short. Gentle, misunderstood journeyman– trekking resolutely through your life, blessing us all along the way.

I’m really proud of that. It was pretty weak until I found a thesaurus. This is what it said before that:

You died real fast. Weak, weird, wandering guy– walking around through your life, making us all happy smile face along way.

I finally get to the casket. I’m starting to get butterflies. The casket is made of glass. That’s cool. I want my casket to be made of iron, so it has to be transported by flatbed truck and lowered into the ground by a crane. I want the only creatures on earth capable of being my pall-bearers to be Transformers.

OK. Moment of truth. Time to make history. Time to yell hard enough into the dead man ears of Michael Jackson that he can hear me in heaven. I feel sick. God, I’m nervous. I have to yell EXTRA hard because he’s in celebrity heaven, which is higher up than regular person heaven.

There’s a velvet rope keeping the commoners roughly five to seven feet from the body. I assume that since I’m a celebrity (My band in high school was on myspace.), I can step over the rope. I am terribly, terribly mistaken. A security guard reaches out and grabs me by the collar of my onezie and I fall onto my back. I hold my hands up and reassure them, “It’s cool. It’s cool. I just need to say something to Michael.” I calm myself and try to be poised and profound, but when I start to speak, I immediately go blank– completely blank. I panic and blurt out the first thing that comes to my mind: “Yippee ky-yay mother fucker!” My voice squeaks horribly at the end and the entire stadium seems to fall silent. I take this opportunity to plug my blog. I was escorted out of the building, and my story ends there. However, I would like to make one quick statement via graphic. Here: